


One Basket

by abstractconcept



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ficlet, Gen, Night Watch, if you turn your head and squint there are shades of Vimes/Vetinari
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-02
Updated: 2017-11-02
Packaged: 2019-01-28 15:33:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12609808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abstractconcept/pseuds/abstractconcept
Summary: Set in Night Watch, Vetinari encounters Vimes masquerading as John Keel.





	One Basket

**Author's Note:**

> I just re-found this today, along with a bunch of other fics I forgot existed. I wasn't even sure I was the one who WROTE it until I tracked down my insanejournal post! Oy. Not sure what to tag this with; let me know if you read this and think of any tags I ought to add.

It was a bloody big barricade. Vetinari wasn’t impressed, as such, but he did find the whole of the thing—carts and benches and chairs and tables and various other spiky bits of furniture that made up the civilisation of the indoors—full of quiet interest.

And there was Keel, slipping off into an alley for a quick smoke, even as the city went to hell in a hand basket.

Vetinari followed on general principal.

He shouldn’t have got distracted. He was there to protect Keel, after all. More or less. Why, he wasn’t certain. Nevertheless, he’d made the choice and he had every intention of keeping an eye on the man.

And keep an eye on him Vetinari did. He wasn’t a big man, nor especially intimidating, even in this light. Oh, to be sure he was scarred and battered and rather evil-looking, what with the eye-patch, but Vetinari had seen true evil, and John Keel didn’t even come close.

There was something almost soft about the way he handled that cigar case, something quiet and gentle and—

A shadow moved, and so did Vetinari.

But even as Vetinari moved, John Keel had swung into action. He swept Vetinari aside with one hand, knocking him to the ground. That had taken some skill.

Vetinari froze, staring up at the bulky, black-clad figure dangling above him from the hands of the watchman. The figure made a gurgling noise, and there was a clink as his weapon tumbled to the ground. Vetinari found this most interesting. The man should have gone for Keel, but he’d been aiming for Vetinari instead. Perhaps he didn’t like the competition. Perhaps—

“Don’t think so much,” Keel grunted, and dropped the man. “Not about this,” he added. 

Vetinari turned, looking up at the man. 

Keel wore the night like it was his own personal armour. He didn’t merely stand, he _loomed,_ he _menaced_ and he _shielded,_ as if for some reason, when Vetinari was in something that, in the right light, might pass for trouble, and the night, justice, _the city_ had suddenly billowed up, taken corporeal form, reached out the very long arm of the law to strike down his attacker. 

Vetinari blinked the strange thought away. And what would the law want with him, anyway? What was _he_ worth to the law?

“I shouldn’t think about this?” he replied quietly, arching a brow. “What should I think about, Mr. Keel?”

Not the least unsettled, Keel smiled. “Think about economy,” he advised. “Think about wheels. Think about banks and butter and trade and tricks and juggling, lad; that’s more your style than back alley thugs and the coppers who stop them. Don’t worry your head about any of this. Just let me do my job, and I’ll let you get on with doing yours.”

Vetinari looked at the man. Yes, Keel was charismatic. Keel was puzzling. Keel wore the city like a—Vetinari wanted to say crown, but that wasn’t right, was it? Keel wore the city like a battered old breastplate, worn and rusty and lovingly cared for, even though there might be shinier examples on the market. 

Keel reached down with one hand and helped Vetinari up, despite the hiss of protest that leaked from between Vetinari’s teeth. “What the devil are you wearing?”

Vetinari didn’t answer, narrowing his eyes haughtily.

Keel dusted him off, not unkindly, but of course the outfit was the colour of dust, so it made little difference. “Better?” Keel asked gruffly. Vetinari could have killed the man then. Should have killed the man then. It would have been easy.

Wouldn’t it?

Looking up into the man’s glassy smile, Vetinari had a rare moment of doubt. 

He _could_ kill the man. Possibly. Probably.

 _And you’d still lose,_ Keel’s smile said. _You need me._  


Vetinari stared. In his experience, few people could stand up to a really good, long stare, but Keel managed. He didn’t even wilt, the stare bouncing off his dented armour like so many blunt arrows. He seemed to be used to it. Perhaps he was everything Madam had said. Perhaps he was useful. No, Vetinari was certain of it. Keel had reached out and cupped his hands round Vetinari as though keeping alive a match flame. 

On the ground, the now-crippled figure gasped for air. “Why—bother—about _him_?” 

Keel looked down speculatively. “No one’s getting _him_ ,” he growled. “Not on _my_ watch.”

 _What a very angry man,_ thought Vetinari. He shivered, not entirely from fear. “What do you want with me?” he asked, voice carefully emotionless.

Keel looked out of the alley, where the watch was milling about, a young watchman peeping in occasionally as if to make certain everything was okay. “What do I want with you? I want you to keep the machine oiled while I take out the parts that don’t work anymore.”

“I’m sorry?”

Keel sighed. “Too metaphysical? Let’s try something else. I want you to think about eggs,” Keel advised. 

Vetinari quickly schooled his face, but from Keel’s expression he imagined that, just for a moment, it had been priceless. “Eggs?” he repeated.

Keel glanced out of the alley again, eyeing that bright young watchman, even as the boy looked proudly, adoringly back. It occurred to Vetinari that they were of an age, he and that boy, although they were worlds apart in a number of ways. Something about Keel’s stance suggested he was keeping an eye on the youth. Vetinari was glad he didn’t need keeping an eye on.

Almost glad.

“Eggs,” he repeated, letting just a hint of reproach crawl into his voice. 

Keel’s face turned reluctantly back to him, and a big, powerful paw reached out, clamping down on Vetinari’s shoulder and steering him deeper into the alley. He was smiling broadly now, amused with something Vetinari said or the way he said it. “Eggs,” he confirmed cheerfully.

“As in, you have to break some to make an omelette?” Vetinari guessed.

Keel stilled, face stony. “As in, don’t keep them all in one basket, for one thing. Handy things, eggs. Now off you go,” he ordered, and Vetinari, surprised at his own feet, obeyed.

The man was obviously used to giving orders. 

Someday Vetinari would be like that. Someday Vetinari would own this city, too. And he would make it _work_ again; it would make _sense_ and people wouldn’t have to die just because they were poor or stupid or _people._ Someday, Ankh-Morpork would spin just like a top, and it would be Vetinari’s fingers making it twirl. Oh, it was rotten now, true, but someday it would be the proudest city on the Discworld, and Vetinari would make it so. And he wouldn’t flex an arm and bend the night the way the watchman did, but surely the city would curl up at his feet in just the same way. 

He glanced back over his shoulder at Keel. Beneath him, Vetinari could feel the pulse of Ankh-Morpork, like some great, vicious beast, and for a moment, he felt he and Keel were much alike. Keel heard the heartbeat of the city, and Keel could give orders, orders even the city would obey.

But could he, when necessary, take them?

He could probably learn.

Vetinari smiled as he scaled a wall, melting into the dark chaos of the night.

 _Eggs. A hard shell, a heart of gold, the promise of the future or a big sticky mess_ , thought Vetinari. _Right. Eggs_. _Eggs and economy, banks and butter and trade and tricks and juggling._ Throw in some intrigue, a lot of bullies, frauds, freaks and fools, and it sounded just like Ankh-Morpork. _Eggs. Hmm._  


He’d think about it.

  



End file.
